


Imagine: Castiel taking you to a fancy restaurant for Valentine’s Day.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel taking you to a fancy restaurant for Valentine’s Day.

Propping the carved mahogany door open, Castiel chivalrously guides you ahead of himself into the elegant restaurant foyer with an encouraging hand hinged at the small of your back. A warm wash of air caresses your cold-stung cheeks; ruffling your hair and the angel’s trench coat as it escapes out into the night, it ferries with it the co-mingled scents of fresh cut flowers, piquant herbs, exotic spices, and wealth.

You dart a departing glance over your shoulder at the bemused valet attendant in a crimson vest holding the keys to the angel’s decrepit truck; it’s not the caliber of vehicle he’s accustomed to parking and you believe at this point he’s probably wondering if he’s on candid camera. The impatient honk of the cherry red Cadillac next in line forces him to jump into the rickety truck to prevent a backup. The engine sputters in protest and reluctantly turns over.

Cas’ insistent fingers compel you onward into luxury with which you are unaccustomed. Shanking demons is a cakewalk compared to the adrenaline-buzz of your nerves crossing into this utter foreign territory. You were not expecting this when Cas explained he had something special planned for the evening.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he bends to whisper in your ear as he slips off your coat; his freshly shaven chin is soft against your cheek, the lingering residue of aftershave tingling your skin. He passes the garment off into waiting hands; because, of course, coat checks are an actual thing here. You hope they don’t check pockets too, or they’ll find the slim silver blade and flask of holy water you packed just in case.

Your astonished gaze lifts to the enormous sparkling crystal chandelier swinging from the vaulted ceiling overhead. You follow the glinting refraction of golden light cascading across the walls to the maître d’ wearing a silken black suit coat replete with tails. The man’s fixed gracious smile – sincerity of his station of servitude betrayed only by the tetchy tapping of his toes – causes you to fidget with the hem of your inferior seeming attire. You’re fairly certain the man must have a top hat to complete his dapper outfit somewhere behind the marble podium he’s posted beside. You’re also fairly certain he knows you don’t belong here. It occurs to you to close your gaping jaw as it’s probably considered ill-refined to gawp.

“You’re very quiet. Is everything alright?” Cas winds his arm around your waist and draws you nearer the column of his body. “The reviews said this restaurant has three Michelin stars. I don’t know what that means, but it seemed important.”

You manage to wrangle your regard to the fretting angel. “Cas, yes, it’s-I’m surprised is all. I don’t know what to say. This is wonderful!”

“Good,” he breaths out, anxious features relaxing into a small contented smile.

Mirroring his gladness, you tangle your arms about his torso to give him an affectionate snuggle.

Embracing you with equal tenderness, he plants a kiss to the crown of your head.

With the angel at your side, you can’t help but feel you’re exactly where you belong no matter the situation. If you can slay a nest of hangry vamps, you can definitely overcome the judgement of one hoity host. Sighing, you tilt away, fingers rising to compulsively straighten the knot of Cas’ perpetually skewed tie and smooth his shirt and lapels.

Grasping at your fussing hands, smile stretching, he twines his fingers through yours and pivots to lead you toward the waiting maître d’.

Squeezing his hand, clutching at his swaying arm, you lean into him as you walk, asking in amazement under your breath for only his ears to perceive, “How on earth did you get reservations on Valentine’s Day? They must be booked out for months!”

His steps falter, blue eyes subtly flaring, brow furrowing as he looks over at you with an expression of controlled alarm. His fingers twitch around yours. “Reservations?” his rasping tone rises an entire octave higher than normal.

Attention aimed ahead at the lavishly furnished candle-lit dining room that awaits, you don’t notice your angel’s unease. Staring ahead in wonderment, your eyes twinkle in rapt anticipation of what could very well be the most romantic night of your life.

Cas gulps, throat bobbing harshly. The angel painstakingly planned every detail of the night – from borrowing Sam’s grooming accoutrements and advice for a proper shave to ensuring the engagement ring tucked in his pocket was suitably reflective of the magnitude of his love and the scope of the question he intended to ask you tonight in spite of Dean’s contention that a Valentine’s Day proposal was about as cliché as cliché gets. He planned every detail, save one.

“Good evening, sir,” the maître d’ greets, leather-bound ledger in hand. Swiping a fingertip over the open parchment page of the book’s short list of guest names on docket for the exclusive evening, he narrows his eyes at Cas, dispassionately inquiring, “Name?”

“Name? Uh-” Cas echoes, stalling for time, “Castiel.”

The man’s mouth tenses in a thin line as he peruses the list for a name he will not find noted thereon.

The angel’s blues veer to your beautiful and beaming aspect. Feeling the weight of the promise contained in his pocket, bolstered by the keen heat of your fingers woven through his own, and unwilling to disappoint you, he does the only thing he can in that moment – he improvises. Raising two fingers, he taps the maître d’s temple to wield the suggestive influence of his divine grace – that holy of holy powers, the all mighty celestial clout, that awe-inspiring terror-instilling God-given gift given him – to finagle a dinner table.

The maître d’ blinks once, dazed. Blinking again, his eyes gleam with clarity. “Ah, yes of course! Castiel! Table for two.”


End file.
